Of all the hopes that fall to man, there is not one I have not hoped.
Of all the fears of fading light, there is not one I have not feared.
But in regret I have found, that man grows to regret what regrets grow in him, not the act of life, but the failure to live it.
And upon his death, in sound bedclothes he breathes in whispers: what if all my life, in all its pains, and hate, and ambitions, have only brought the throws of death, true death, to my door.
What if in my brief spark, amongst the cave of darkness, I was the shadow cast by the candle on the wall, unknowing that a greater light could be?